


Henry's books

by Be3



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, episode-related drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be3/pseuds/Be3
Summary: Henry appreciates long stories.





	1. Episode 6; Melmoth the Wanderer

They were just sitting to scones and Earl Grey when Abe stood up and gave him a package brought in the day before. An online purchase, which his son made on his behalf when it turned out that neither of them could allocate time to visit the stores without hurry for at least a week yet. (Abe's other argument was that he had already spent some petrol on an unplanned detour to the riverside.) At least the delivery was in pristine condition.

You trade in antiques long enough, things get mangled in the mail.

Or 'lost'.

Or booby-trapped.

Anyway, this one time the online services were not lacking. He wiped his hands and carefully cut the wrapping paper.

Henry thought that the book looked laughably modern. They put that picture by Delacroix on the cover, and even that didn't help. He sighed.

He should have splurged for the original.

'Melmoth, huh?' asked Abe, leaning in. 'Seriously. What put you in the mood?'

'A most likely vain hope of educating my assistant on the finer points of gothic art.'

'Aww, Pops, you're being sweet.'

'Not remotely.' He shuddered and took a sip of his tea, leafing idly through the pages. 'The lieutenant drafted me to look at the whole Soul Slasher series in order to list all possible inaccuracies, which would help, in theory, to distinguish future copycats arising from that – that – fandom. Lucas took it for a sign of my coming around to seeing its virtues.'

Which was when Henry informed him, and maybe also a score of onlookers, about the rich tradition of horror literature.

'Must be fascinating reading.'

'Abraham.'

'Just imagine, they pay you for it. Taxpayers' money.'

'I would have happily declined the honour.'

'Come on, Pops, you are uniquely qualified.'

'Hm. Thank you... And so I am, unlike the man who wrote the foreword for this edition. Why is it so slim? Ah, a glossary!'

'Don't look!' cried his wise son, spewing some crumbles across the table. 'It will upset your stomach.'

Henry hastily shut the book.

'You are right, it invariably does.'

'You met the author?'

'Maturin? As a matter of fact, I did. You cannot imagine my disappointment when he confessed it was all pure fancy.'

At least, in Maturin's opinion. Had Adam spoken with the excitable parson? He took a large bite to conceal his unease.

'Hey, I made enough of them that you can take some to work and share,' Abe waved a hand, eyes sparkling. 'Say 'hi' to Detective Martinez for me.'

'Abraham. Of course I shall say 'hi' to Detective Martinez for you. I am a man of manners, hopefully.'

And so they parted, each to his own work.


	2. Episode 2; Catullus, Carmen 16

A/N: the translations were taken from rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/?l=e 

The Latin quote is from Carmen 16, third and second lines from the end... [TBC]

 

It was late.

Abe poured himself a shot and handed Henry the bottle. For a while, they sat together in silence.

'I talked to her parents today,' Henry said at last. 'Gave them some...closure.'

Gave them so very little.

'Do not be amazed: for you are all well,  
you digest well, you fear nothing -  
not fires, not severe ruin,  
not wicked deeds, not plots of poison,  
nor other dangerous accidents.'

His son looked over at him with some surprise.

'Going into insurance?'

'No,' he said, lying back on the sofa. 'Just in mind for Catullus. Not the best of attempts – the meter's all rough, I'll grant you... Bradley's, I think.'

'At least you didn't go all out. This time. I ain't that fluid in Latin.'

'I could use a remedial course myself,' he said modestly, and Abraham snorted.

They spent another while without words, just thinking and watching the jellyfish play in their tank.

'Although, in this particular case I think I can select a poem or two which you might recognize,' Henry began conversationally.

'Oh?'

'Ye-es, I seem to recall a volume of utterly untranslated material which went missing about...five decades ago, or even earlier...'

'Dad.' Abe was pouting.

Henry sat up and pressed a knuckle to his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

'I wonder what lines were read the most.'

'Dad.'

'Perhaps, vos, quod milia multa basiorum legistis, male me marem putatis?'

'Never!' Abe put a hand over his heart. 'Don't you know me?'

'At this point I don't know if I'd prefer you to be objecting to my choice of verse, or simply kidding, or... Yes, all right, let's drink to our acquaintance.'

'A start of a beautiful friendship and all that.'

'Well, you were a charmer, Abraham Morgan.'

'And here's to your surpassed kissing abilities.'

'He was exaggerating.'

'Oh, you don't know that.'

'It's called a hyperbole!'

'Uh-huh.'

The jellyfish shone softly, like little innocent ghosts.

'I have it somewhere,' Abe said at last.

'Keep it,' mumbled Henry, flopping down and getting comfortable. 'Just don't come running to me with a complaint that an old Roman steered you wrong.'

'Don't worry, he didn't...'

'Abraham!'

A/N: ...and in Carl Cohen's translation, read You! You read about my "many kisses" and doubt I'm fully a man?


	3. Continuation for 'Melmoth'

He came in later than usual, delayed by a bit of bike maintenance. (Henry Morgan wasn't dragging his feet, not at his venerable 235 years old. He simply cared enough about his safety to spend a few minutes checking tires every once in a while.)

Those few minutes translated into his running into Lucas near the elevator. Although, going by unamused police officers heading off to the stairs and the growing stack of cardboard boxes in the cabin, it might have been unavoidable either way.

Lt. Reece preferred her revenge hot. And legal. But mostly, hot.

'BOSS!'

Lucas was beaming. 'Out of breath' was as rare for him as 'healthy-coloured', and, in Henry's considered opinion, a much more attractive state. (Not that he ever ogled his young assistant. You live long enough, you learn to recognize small mercies.)

'Morning,' said Henry, slipping 'Melmoth' into his pocket.

Loath as he was to (and he really, really was), it was time to lend a hand. Everybody in the precinct seemed to know about his predicament, and he wished to cut the spectacle short.

And boy, comic books were heavy for their lack of content.

Graphic novels, he reminded himself. Today, they are graphic novels.

'No, 's alright, I'll manage -' babbled Lucas, waving a hand towards his hoard.

'Go ahead and change,' he offered. 'Otherwise, you might catch a chill, you've sweated through your shirt.'

'Thanks, I'm going, I'll help you unload!'

And Lucas scampered off, leaving him to finish, which was when Detective Martinez entered the lobby. Just his luck.

'Renovations?' asked Jo with a smirk. She had bought herself a burger, the poor woman. Never mind, he had scones for both of them.

'Spoils of war.'

'Going to the victor?' she stressed, biting her lip.

'But of course!'

He almost said we won this fight against crime, but caught himself at the last moment. Jo had a look about her. Jo had a man's death on her conscience.

'Well,' Jo smiled blandly. They stood awkwardly amidst the luggage. Henry pressed the button. 'If I knew you're a fan, I would have got you one before.'

'As you see, I suffer no shortage of this – resource. Let's have lunch together.'

'I'd like to.'

They exchanged a word or two about The Frenchman, whom Abe was taking out to dinner. The woman had regained her composure by the time reinforcements arrived, and sold a pair of hunting knives to the Sergeant who took her testimonial. Then the elevator stopped, and Henry resigned himself to a day of alternative culture.

…...

Lucas Wahl, assistant medical examiner, was on Cloud Nine. According to himself.

They retreated to Henry's office, because Cloud Nine was not high enough and people kept stealing glances at their barricade of nonsense.

Lucas was entering their findings in excel, which (Henry told himself) surely meant 'very good at typing', because his mouth wasn't closing for longer than half a consonant.

Soul Slasher was a long story.

Henry wanted to buckle up and process the whole batch one issue after the other, in chronological order. Lucas had favourites. Henry was all for doing his job in a timely manner. Lucas supposed every novel had its redeeming points.

Indeed, as soon as he opened one, he saw plenty of them.

Lunch was an oasis of calm. Conversation was lagging, by his standards, but Jo didn't mind, and Hanson brought home-made apple pie. The detectives were more understanding of his plight then he had uncharitably expected.

'Man, you should have read that forum,' grumbled Hanson, scowling at his chipped mug.

'Give it a rest, Mike,' muttered Jo. This looked like a rehearsed argument. 'Just 'cause some psycho took up murder after browsing the 'net, doesn't mean you should unplug everything at home.'

Ah. So this had to do with Hanson's boys. He should have known.

'Maybe it does! Take Doc, he lives without the – how d'you call it –'

'Trappings of society?'

Jo snickered into her coffee, mouthing 'handcuffs' behind her hand.

'Yeah.'

'Contrary to popular opinion,' said Henry with dignity, 'I do not reside in a cave. We have a television set, a telephone –'

Just then, Hanson's own phone went off, and he excused himself to talk to his wife.

'How're you bearing it?' Jo asked softly.

'Barely.'

'Consider it a bonding exercise.'

'I thought I was to bear it.'

'Hen-ry.'

He liked how she said his name. It was a highlight of his lunch, and therefore of all his working hours that day.

Maybe of the whole week, or more, if they had to visit the library again or if Lucas's collections were incomplete.

But Henry felt safe on that count.

…...

Evening fell, and he had to smother the urge to grab his coat and escape the morgue ahead of his co-workers. Dr. Henry Morgan had a reputation to maintain.

Lucas had talked himself hoarse, but his enthusiasm never dimmed.

'If only there was some point to it,' Henry mused aloud. 'Something beyond gratuitous...I am not sure what to call it.'

'It's a genre, you know, 's got its laws,' Lucas croaked. 'Doesn't have to be deep.'

Henry looked away.

'There is no care, no thought beyond this! Let our children call on me for instruction, for promotion, for distinction, and call in vain–I hold myself innocent. They may find those for themselves, or want them if they list–but let them never in vain call on me for bread, as they have done,–as they do now! I hear the moans of their hungry sleep!–World–world, be wise, and let your children curse you to your face for any thing but want of bread!'

There was no answer. He turned to the other man.

Lucas's mouth was hanging open. The computer was humming evenly. Everybody else had already left.

And because the day had been long, and he was weary, he dashed a hand across his eyes before taking out the laughably modern book and presenting it to the other man.


	4. Episode 9; Winnie-the-Pooh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crack crossover

...and this is not actually episode-related, just somewhere after The Pugilist Break.

 

Also, crack, people. So much crack.

Abe was unwell again; his blood pressure was acting up. He believed it was a reaction to the changing weather. Henry didn't consider him to be in any real danger, but just to be safe, they decided to close the shop for the day.

So he was worried. They could afford it, and he called the morgue and impressed the need for quiet efficiency upon the well-meaning Mr. Wahl. In all probability, the building would still be there when he deemed his son well.

Unless zombie apocalypse took the 11th Precinct by surprise, but Lucas promised to take care of it.

He folded the serviette and carried Abe's lunch to his room.

'Chicken noodle soup? Yay! I want a story, too!'

'His name was Abraham Morgan, and he lived dangerously.'

'Ha. Ha.'

'Here you are,' Henry hooked up a chair with his foot. He almost dropped the tableware, almost sat down upon his patient's knees, and almost knocked the clock off the table (and how he did that, he had no idea), but managed to straddle the recalcintrant piece of furniture and to pass Abe his much needed sustenance. That was flair. Trademark Morgan flair.

'Dad? I didn't mean a story of how you took a swim because you couldn't very well give me a plate when you came in.'

'I was choosing between the multitude I know.'

Abe grinned.

'Oh, I see. You have already chosen.'

'Winnie-the-Pooh. Where they save Piglet from the flood.'

Henry corrected his seating arrangements. He loved that book! He'd sought it out as soon as they'd settled in the States. It was one of the first that he'd read to his little boy, back when Abe hadn't known what 'bear' stood for.

He was certain he knew it by heart.

'Only, use your own words,' Abe added smugly.

'What?'

'Tell it like you lived it. Jazz it up, Pops.'

Henry squinted at the man. A vague suspicion formed in his mind.

But Abraham was happily slurping noodles, and he decided to let it pass.

'All right,' he began slowly. 'It rained and it rained and it rained, as it often does in New York.'

...Piglet was becoming a bit worried. Sure, he could call Pooh any time, and there was not too much paperwork, but when you're a Very Small Animal Entirely Surrounded by Water – or by Potential Brain-Eaters, which is not any better in most senses – you begin to feel a little Anxious.

Other people might have been better suited to hold the fort. His boss, for example.

'Pooh hasn't much Brain, but he never comes to any harm. He does silly things and they turn out right,' Abe supplied helpfully.

...Yes. So. There was also Owl, with his two chicks happily destroying what remained of his Brain. Owl wasn't too smart, but he would know what to do if he were surrounded by water (slight consolation). There was Rabbit, he of the Clever Plans and too many divorces –

'Hey!'

… And Kanga, who had the whole Department to take care about – Kanga did so many Good Things in a day, it was a wonder she had any time to think them through. And Eeyore, who never cared about developing his assistants' skills and might actually miss the whole Zombie Apocalypse if nobody told him (and they wouldn't.) But what would Christopher Robin do?

Then he suddenly remembered that Christopher Robin... Christopher Robin... made Pooh buy a cellphone the other day.

'Really?'

'I haven't decided. Hush.'

...So he took his own cellphone out and typed in a despairing message, in this new-fangled fashion which disregards both grammar and syntax, and sent that message to Pooh, who, after all, had learned so many things in Guam that a little piece of code-breaking seemed entirely within his capabilities.

Meanwhile, Pooh was busy, saving his treasure from being ruined by horrible atmospheric conditions.

'Thanks, Dad.'

'You're welcome.'

...Pooh and Christopher Robin were on speaking terms again, after Pooh promised to behave and let Christopher Robin do his job for which he had trained for years before they even met. He was a bit antsy to get back into action, though, and when Piglet's garbled signal came through, and his powers of deduction failed him (yes, it happens), he took care of his treasure, mounted his bike and rode it through the unrelenting rain to Christopher Robin's place. Christopher Robin was rapidly becoming antsy for action, too, what with having only Owl to discuss their abysmal circumstances with, and so was very glad to meet his bear.

'They rushed into each other's arms.'

'My story.'

...'How did you get here, Pooh?' asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. 'On my bike,' Pooh answered proudly, and got an earful about wet asphalt. Luckily, he had a riddle, and they all tried to unlock the secret, and all failed. The only way to solve it was to go ask Piglet, and they stood up and went to the elevator... And there was a power outage.

'We must take the stairs,' said Winnie. 'It's dark there, and we need a flashlight, so that Piglet would not immediately leap at us with his machete that he keeps behind the lockers and I kindly pretend I don't know about.'

'I have a flashlight in my phone,' said Christopher Robin. 'But I forgot to charge it today.'

'I have a lighter,' said Owl. 'Even though I don't smoke, you understand. But it is a small flame, and he might not pause to let us all have a turn at illuminating our faces.'

Christopher Robin agreed that the lighter was indeed too small for the three of them, so they left Owl in the office and crept down the stairs, and just as they heard a blood-curdling scream...

Abraham sat up.

'Come on! Dad! What happened?'

'Sh-sh, I'm getting to it.'

...the lights went back on. You can imagine how happy Piglet was to see it was indeed Christopher Robin and Pooh, and he asked why they didn't just message him back. The End.

'Whew,' said Abe, sagging into the pillow. 'What a wringer. Wait, did Lucas really text you?'

Henry smirked and tucked his son in.

'If you can't distinguish fact from fiction, I must not be that bad at telling stories.'


	5. Episodes 5 and 6; a report on a typhoid outbreak

A/N: because Henry has more old books than just world-famous classics and journals of past deaths. Takes place at the end of the day after The Frustrating Thing about Psychopaths, also kind of refers to The Pugilist Break.

Background information: The Perfect Food and the Filth Disease: Milk-borne Typhoid and Epidemiological Practice in Late Victorian Britain. J. S. Williams. J. of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, Vol. 65, No. 4 (October 2010), pp. 514-545.

 

The self-made book was old and battered by the many journeys it had endured, and much beloved.

He'd taken it to work on impulse and spent the day either fretting about its safety or sighing that he had no time to delight in the familiar narrative, but now the evening came, and he knew what he had to do.

Henry Morgan courageously waved to his assistant and fumbled with his scarf. His fingers still itched to turn the pages.

'Need anything?' asked Lucas, leaning in. It was late, and he had to be hungry (they had accidentally worked through a lunch break), so he was to be excused some impatience.

'Your word to keep this treasure safe,' answered Henry, reluctantly picking said treasure up and offering it to the young man. 'It's an original report of – almost forensic medicine pre-dating the Ripper case.'

Lucas blinked, eyes going round. Then his hands twitched like he wanted to grab the poor thing and never let go, and he started to divest himself of blood-stained scrubs with alarming speed.

'Easy!' exclaimed Henry, hugging the precious record to his vest. 'I'd rather you savour it than gulp it down like some half-cooked excuse for reading material.'

'Will do,' Lucas promised, throwing on his blazer. 'Wait, do I need gloves? Do you need gloves? Why aren't you wearing –'

'...It's not a piece of evidence.'

'Huh.'

For some reason, Lucas looked surprised.

'Yet.'

For some reason – Henry liked to think it was utterly unrelated to the previous one – Lucas looked not surprised at all.

'Okaay, apple of your eye, no problem.' And there it was, greedy paw approaching defenceless paper. Henry told himself very sternly to let go before he could change his mind and bolt.

He had a duty to his student.

'Radcliffe and Power. Radcliffe? No relation?.. Report on an Outbreak of Enteric Fever in Marylebone and Adjoining Parts of London. All in Capitals, too.' Lucas glanced up. 'Like... murder by enteric fever?'

'No,' he said. The hard part was behind him. Henry patted his neckwear into place and gestured to the door. 'More like half a thousand deaths arising from malpractice on the part of a dairy farm –'

'I'm reading it! I'm reading it!'

'At home.'

Chastised, his assistant took a moment to carefully pack the volume. They turned towards the exit, scanning the room for equipment which might have been left on.

'It happened in 1873,' said Henry, giving in to the urge to share some of the story in his own words. The outbreak was brief, relatively speaking, but oh, did it seem much longer. 'Back then, we knew, of course, that typhoid fever was contagious, but not the exact way it spread, despite Tait's article in '58'. The article that he'd initially missed. Henry Morgan swallowed. What current medical advances was he unaware of? One of this days he was going to learn how to use that Google Scholar; Abe was singing its praises like he knew exactly what he was doing to his poor father.

'Come on, cut them some slack.'

Oh, right. Lucas. Morgue. Waiting for the elevator.

'I mean, that was before –' Lucas waved an arm, obviously having trouble thinking of a relevant research landmark that was not DNA-this or DNA-that. It was all ancient times for him.

'Indeed,' Henry said drily. This was another reason why he wanted his assistant to expand his horizons. Progress was good, technology was great, up until you had to wait two weeks for a tox screen, or to identify an antique blade. 'Luckily, John Whitmore, Marylebone's Medical Officer of Health, was conscientious enough to rule out every possible avenue of contagion except for drinking milk from the same source.'

Even more than a century later, calling Whitmore merely 'conscientious' left a strange taste in his mouth.

'Legwork,' Lucas nodded. They entered the elevator. 'Got it.'

'Then, of course, there was the matter of convincing the company selling it to suspend the deliveries.'

'Corruption... Lack of administrative powers... Same old, same old.'

'You sound so wise,' said Henry, unable to help himself.

Lucas bowed a little.

'And lastly, the need to find the culprit – the farmer who diluted the milk with contaminated water. That was a watertight piece of investigative work, Lucas! Seven dairies out of the eight that sold their products to the company, were found respectably clean; but the last one was exactly what they were looking for. Typhoid fever – going just a bit back before it spread to London.'

'Yay!'

Dimly he saw that they had reached the lobby, but excitement surged through him when he recalled that terrible week – a whole week before the Dairy Reform Company agreed to an inspection – and Lucas's mouth was slightly ajar. He couldn't just leave the tale 'to be continued'.

'The owner himself had died, among other people. They surveyed the land – the well was at the bottom of a depression, meaning a chance that seepage could have gotten in the water supply – and it was 'distasteful', Lucas, it wasn't used for cooking in the household!'

'There you are!'

'Excavations showed it was polluted by leakage from the pigsty and the ash heap.'

'So it was the pigsty!' cried Lucas.

There was an odd, vast sound of wordless agreement.

'Ah, but it wasn't! The physician who had treated the owner instructed them to pour the drainage – that is, the feces – into the ash heap, precisely so that other members of his family would escape harm!'

'Gosh! What a piece of bad luck!'

'Yeah,' said the distinctly unimpressed voice of Lieutenant Reece. 'Simply awful.'

They turned as one, and she was standing there with Detective Hanson. Hanson, who was still not over Jo's brush with a serial killer, and so was reluctantly supportive of Henry going with her into Dangerous Situations (as long as it wasn't the other way round), was trying to give the impression that the folder he was holding contained the secrets of the universe.

There were other people standing further away, who apparently had folders or cups or – yes, it was a doughnut – of no less significance, but they looked like they would really not mind taking the stairs, nope, not at all.

Henry knew the exact moment when Lucas's eyes landed on the doughnut by the forlorn rumbling of his stomach.

'We were...just...leaving.' Lucas nodded several times.

'Until tomorrow, then,' said Reece, stepping past them into the car.

'Bye,' mumbled Hanson, shaking his head. Maybe he was reconsidering his stance on letting Henry tag along onto crime scenes.

The two medical examiners hurried out, stopping only to give the keys to the receptionist, and met Jo, who was waiting very kindly by her car, as if she didn't slip outside seconds earlier.

'Need a lift?' Jo asked brightly.

'Yes,' they said together. 'Please,' added Henry.

'Your place first,' Jo informed him. 'And you're inviting us for tea.' She started the car. 'I will even have some milk.'

He was? Well...perhaps...

'I won't,' Lucas said at once.

'Never mind,' said Henry, checking his seatbelt. 'How about a beer?'


	6. Continuation of 'Melmoth'; Grana

It was odd that both Assistant M.E. Lucas Wahl and his immediate boss, Dr. Henry Morgan, would feel mellow and accomplished at the same time.

It was likewise odd that Henry'd recognize a song he was humming.

No, Lucas corrected himself; 'odd' was the Doc's 'common'. This...camaraderie was a historical occurrence.

' _All they are is dust in the wind_ ,' Henry Morgan sang under his breath with an unusually serene smile. A moment later his good mood was explained. 'Nothing lasts forever, Lucas. Even _Soul Slasher_.'

'It's an end of an era,' said Lucas with due gravity. He'd come to terms with the fact that the Doc wasn't cut out to enjoy horror erotica. Guy just lacked that certain something in his brain.

Besides, Lucas could afford magnanimity. He was the one to deliver their findings ('On recognizing crimes based on descriptions in a ~~comic~~ graphic novel series, _etc_.') to the Lieutenant, who leafed thorough it and seemed to gain a new regard for his reading tastes.

Maybe not all that positive regard, but meh. A job was a job.

'Why must it be an end?' asked Henry, and his eyes twinkled.

Lucas gaped at him. 'What do you mean? _Soul Slasher_ is unique! I don't know any other franchise that has this level of detail!'

'Thank heaven for small mercies.' Henry leaned down and picked something from under is desk.

'Then why – ?'

'Here,' said the Doc, handing him a dozen issues of a forbiddingly academic journal with the word _Grana_ on the front page. 'Science awaits!'

'Um...' Lucas flipped through an one, saw pictures of pollen grains in gray scale and didn't sigh. This was pure botany. 'These yours?'

'I, too, have a library,' Henry said smugly, folding his arms.

'But, eh, what do you want me to _do_?'

'I realise it was before your time,' Henry frowned, as if he only then saw an obstacle he should have expected. 'But have you ever heard of a gentleman by the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?'

What happened next was just so _Henry Morgan_ that he couldn't have imagined anybody other to make that offer...or, if he was honest with himself, to accept it.

 

***

 

'So we know this woman was a professional baker by the fungi spores and flour in her lower respiratory tract.'

'We don't _know_ , Lucas! We strongly suspect.'

'But, Doc, we already knew she worked in a bakery. Her family told us so.'

Henry closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose.

'Ookay, yep, we strongly suspect.'

 

***

 

 _Being Henry's student is tough,_ thought Lucas, burrowing under the covers of his comfy bed. _Where's my personal life? Why am I reviewing pharmacology? I don't even get pharmacology, not really. And those... things... under the nails. Ugh. Gotta tell him I'm just an assistant. Yep._ _T_ _otally_ _gonna_ _do it tomorrow._

 

***

 

'Right, I predict that you picked this branch somewhere within the city, or along an interstate, going by the lack of any lichens. And you did it sometime before – 7 am?'

'Hmm,' said Henry, staring critically at the thick bough ('murder weapon') he had to have trouble explaining to the desk sergeant. 'What makes you think so?'

'You were in early?'

'You shouldn't guess! Don't go out on a limb here.'

 

***

 

 _Being Henry's student is kinda_ _great_ _,_ thought Lucas, falling asleep eye-to-eye with a Graves' disease sufferer in his book.

He probably could tell why it was great, too, but he was officially out of gas.

 

***

 

'Is that Mickey Mouse?'

'Just a model. And before you ask, I didn't sculpt it. I asked a friend.'

_'Cool.'_

Henry smirked. 'I rather thought that you would be more careful sampling a work of art than a soulless lump of wax.'

'No... I'm just surprised you know who Mickey Mouse is...'

' _Pollen analysis_ , Lucas.'

'Coming right up!'

 

***

 

And then, the inevitable happened.

'May I enquire as to what you are doing?'

 _Drat_ , Lucas thought. Dr. Washington was going to incinerate him on the spot. Reluctantly, he looked up from his microscope.

'I'm counting mites, sir.' Dust mites from a mattress that had been kept in storage for a year. He couldn't pronounce some of the names of their body parts.

'Is it for an investigation?'

'Er – '

'I would advise you to keep your extracurricular studies to the hours for which you don't get paid, Mr. Wahl. You are, after all, an employee of the State. As of right now.'

'Yes, sir.'

He carefully picked the slide from the stage and put it aside. And he kept his head down. It didn't matter, did it? It hadn't, for Sherlock Holmes.

But the man hadn't been an employee of the State.

He heard the door swoosh and rapid footsteps approach, and lowered his head even more.

'Lucas! Ah, hello, Dr. Washington. Lucas! Do you have a minute? I would like to go over the Alpine Anaphylaxis Affair again.'

Lucas's guts rumbled apologetically. It was a talent of his: he had a very expressive stomach. There was a minute change in the way light fell on his desk, because Henry had moved closer. Lucas wished the floor would just open up and swallow him, microscope and all.

'Ah, I see you are occupied.'

'Not at all,' Dr. Washington declared amiably. 'Mr. Wahl wasn't doing anything terribly urgent.'

Lucas gritted his teeth.

'Indeed. Mites can wait,' Henry said pleasantly. 'People going into anaphylactic shock, on the other hand, die astonishingly fast!'

'And it is then that they become subjects of our research.'

Something about Washington's tone made Lucas understand, with a lurch, that this talk was long in coming.

Somehow, he also could tell without looking that Henry Morgan's eyes went just a bit wider.

'Luckily, there were no fatalities.'

'Dr. Morgan – ' began Dr. Washington with finality, but Dr. Morgan put a hand on his assistant's shoulder and said, with impeccable aplomb, 'If you would excuse us, sir, FSI sent me a request to review an article, and I would like to show Mr. Wahl the basics of the process. He has a sound comprehension of applied palynology, and so his input would be much appreciated.'

 _Forensic Science International?_ thought Lucas, dazed. _He's gotta be fibbing._

Hurriedly wiping his face on his sleeve, he looked up into the charged air, and saw a wintry smile on Henry's face, and guarded appraisal on Dr. Washington's.

 

 _Yeah,_ he thought. _Sometimes. Worth it. Every page._

 


End file.
